The Transvestite Who Turned Me Into Her Doll

I pressed the buzzer with trembling fingers. Your building was on a quiet street in the city center, one of those dark-brick blocks with an intercom and rusty mailboxes in the entryway. I had been waiting for that moment for weeks: ever since we exchanged the first messages and you, with few words and no concessions, made it clear what you were going to do to me when I crossed your door.

You had told me to come dressed like a man. Dark suit, tie, lace-up shoes. I followed the instructions to the letter, but underneath I had my own secret: a pair of black lace panties I had bought in secret months earlier and never had the courage to wear outside the house. Nobody knew. Nobody except you, because I had confessed it to you in one of those late-night emails I would write and delete and write again until one night I sent them with my heart in my mouth and didn’t sleep until I got a reply.

The door opened before I could change my mind.

You looked exactly like in the photos. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a strong jaw that the makeup softened without quite hiding. You wore a black sheath dress that hit above the knee, dark nylon stockings with a seam up the back, and stiletto heels that gave you another six inches of height. Your posture was that of someone who has no doubts about anything. You looked me over from head to toe with an expression somewhere between appraisal and contempt, saying nothing for several seconds.

—Come in —you said at last, and it was not an invitation.

You took me by the arm and shoved me inside with a firm push. The door closed behind me. The apartment smelled of expensive perfume and something harder to name: something warm and closed in that tightened my stomach from the very first second.

You led me into the living room. There was a dark leather sofa, a floor lamp lit in the corner, and on the coffee table an empty ashtray and a glass of water that was not for me. You put me in front of the sofa with a gesture that allowed only one interpretation: stop here, don’t move, wait.

—Take everything off —you said.

There was no hesitation on your part. I took an extra second, and you raised one eyebrow. I untied my tie, then my jacket, then my shirt. My hands were shaking a little and I couldn’t help it. When I got to my belt and my trousers fell to the floor, there were the black lace panties against my male skin, with my cock already half-hard pressing against the sheer fabric. Your expression changed: it was only an instant, a brief flash of something that might have been satisfaction.

You laughed.

It was a short laugh, almost clinical. You stepped closer, ran two fingers along the waistband of the fabric, and tugged it up slightly before letting go. The lace bit into my ass crack and I let out a gasp I couldn’t swallow.

—So you did come prepared —you said—. Good. Kneel.

I knelt on the rug. Your feet were inches from my hands, your black stilettos gleaming under the lamp. You lifted the fabric of the dress slowly, never taking your eyes off me. What you had underneath left no room for ambiguity: a thick cock, already swollen, pointing at my face from beneath the hem of the black dress. You were only half a woman, just as I was only half a man, and that imperfect coincidence was exactly what had brought me here.

—Take it out —you said—. With your mouth.

I moved up on my knees and used my lips and teeth to lift the hem of the dress until it was fully free. It fell heavy, warm against my cheek. It left a wet line on my skin and I stayed there for a second, face pressed against that hot flesh, breathing in the musk-and-soap smell rising from your groin.

—Take it out —you repeated, lower—. And suck it like you promised me you would.

I took it with both hands. I closed my eyes for a moment to focus on the heat and the smell, on the concrete reality of what I held between my fingers, and I began. I stuck out my tongue and licked the whole base first, from bottom to top, following the thick vein pulsing beneath your skin. I felt it throbbing against my tongue. Then the head: I circled the glans, probed the small slit at the tip with my tongue, tasted the first salty drop already beading there.

—All of it —you said, and put a hand on the back of my neck without squeezing—. Take it all in.

I opened my mouth and swallowed it as far as I could. At first it wasn’t much: half, three-quarters, and I already felt the tip pushing at my throat. I pulled back, breathed through my nose, went down again. Again. My saliva dripped from the corner of my lips and onto my chest, leaving dark stains on the lace panties. Every time I took you deep I choked a little, and that wet sound, that small muffled moan that slipped out of me, made you tighten your fingers in my hair.

—That’s it, doll —you said softly—. That’s how you suck a cock.

You called me doll for the first time and something opened inside me. I doubled my effort. Now I used my hand at the base for what my mouth couldn’t reach, twisting slowly as I went up and down, and with my other hand I caressed your balls beneath the dress, squeezing them carefully, weighing them, feeling them tighten against your body.

Time dissolved. Your breathing changed, became shorter, rougher. You started moving your hips, fucking my mouth slowly, setting the pace yourself. I stopped working and stayed still, mouth open and tongue out, letting you go in and out, using me as if I were just another hole. Saliva ran in strings down to my thighs. My eyes filled with tears from the gagging and I didn’t care.

—Look at me —you said, and yanked my hair back to force me to lift my face without taking yourself out of my mouth.

I looked at you like that, with your cock deep in my throat and my eyes wet, and I saw your jaw clench.

—You’re going to swallow everything I give you —you said—. Every drop. Understand?

I nodded as best I could, mouth occupied.

When I felt the first change in texture, the salty taste that announced what was coming, I sped up. Your hand in my hair tightened until it hurt. A low sound came out of your throat, almost involuntary, and then a deeper groan, and I felt your cock go even harder, pulsing between my lips. It came in waves: warm, thick, with a taste I couldn’t tell whether I liked or not, but I didn’t think about wasting a single drop. The first spurt slapped against my palate. The second filled my mouth. The third, the fourth were already running from the corner of my lips, and you held my jaw with your other hand so I wouldn’t lose any of it.

—Swallow —you said—. All of it.

I swallowed. I felt the thick semen go down my throat and stayed still, with you still inside me, until you signaled me to take you out. When you came free, I ran my tongue along the full length, cleaning off the last traces, sucking your tip until it shone.

You pulled me to my feet by the arm.

—Come —you said.

***

You led me down the hallway to a room that that night was functioning differently than usual. The wardrobe was thrown wide open and clothes were scattered everywhere: over the bed, hanging from the chair, piled on the floor. Dresses, skirts, stockings, lingerie in different colors, accessories of every kind. On a shelf, three wigs on their stands. A large open makeup case on the dressing table.

—You have one hour —you said from the doorway—. When you come out I want to see a doll. Not a man in drag. A real doll, head to toe. Understand?

I nodded.

—Good. —And you closed the door.

I spent the first few minutes just looking. There were too many options and I wasn’t the type to make decisions easily, even in normal situations. But this wasn’t a normal situation, and at some point the nerves turned into something else: into a strange clarity about what I wanted to see when I looked at myself in the mirror.

I chose carefully. A straight platinum-blonde wig that fell to my shoulders. A pale pink spaghetti-strap dress with a flared skirt, the kind of garment designed to make the person wearing it seem smaller, more fragile, more manageable. White stockings with lace trim at the thigh. Low-heeled sandals with a gold buckle. Underneath, a pair of panties with a small embroidered bow in front. For makeup I stayed conservative: light foundation to even out my skin tone, soft blush on the cheeks, pink gloss on the lips. Nothing overdone. Just the softest version of what I could be.

When I looked in the mirror before opening the door I stood still for several seconds. The person staring back at me was undoubtedly me, but it was also something that had gone too long without space to exist.

I opened the door and walked out.

***

You were in the living room, standing beside the sofa. You had a leather belt folded in your left hand and your arms crossed. When I saw you I didn’t say anything, because nothing seemed like the right gesture. I stopped several feet from you and waited.

You walked around me. One full circle, slowly, unhurried. Your eyes took in every detail: the wig, the dress, the stockings, the shoes, the posture. The silence was heavy but not hostile. I kept my eyes forward and my hands clasped in front of me because I didn’t know where else to put them.

You stopped in front of me.

—Better than I expected —you said—. Turn around. Lift your skirt. I want to see my doll’s ass.

I turned around. I grabbed the hem of the pink dress and lifted it to my waist, baring my ass with the white panties snug against it. I felt your hand slowly pass over one cheek, squeeze it, measure it.

—Bend over —you said—. Put your hands on the back of the sofa.

I leaned forward, skirt still raised, offering you my ass. The belt fell across my buttocks with such precision it knocked the breath out of me. The sound was dry and final. The burn spread in waves from the point of impact, slow, persistent.

It fell again. And again. Five belt strikes in a row, each one harder than the last, each one leaving a red stripe that burned as if an iron had been dragged over it. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, but by the fourth the sounds escaped me, high-pitched moans I didn’t recognize as my own.

—Who’s in charge here? —you asked.

—You —I answered. My voice sounded smaller than I meant it to.

—Louder.

—You’re in charge, Raquel.

You nodded. You took my chin between two fingers and kissed me in a way that was anything but tender: a kiss of possession, of a boundary drawn with the tongue. You pushed your tongue all the way in, sucked mine, bit my lower lip until I gasped. When you pulled away, the pink gloss I had chosen was gone from my mouth and appeared on yours.

You slid a hand beneath my skirt and yanked my white panties off in one hard pull. The fabric gave with a sharp rip. You tucked them into the pocket of the dress like a trophy.

—To the bedroom —you said.

***

You shoved me onto the bed with enough force that the dress skirt lifted on its own. You left the wig on me, the stockings, the shoes. Everything else stayed where it was: the pink dress wrinkled at my waist, the white stockings up to my thighs, my ass bare with the red marks from the belt still hot. You undressed yourself calmly, without hurry, keeping control even in that. I watched your black dress slip from your shoulders, your flat, muscular chest appear, your cock hanging heavy between your legs, already beginning to swell again.

You climbed onto the bed behind me. You put a hand on the back of my neck and pushed my face down into the mattress, leaving my ass raised.

—Open up —you said.

I reached back and spread my cheeks with my fingers, showing you the hole. I heard the sound of a jar being uncapped and then felt cold lubricant dripping between my buttocks, sliding slowly down to my asshole. Your finger scooped it up and pushed it in without warning, all the way to the knuckle. I moaned into the mattress.

—Tight —you said, almost to yourself—. We’re going to fix that.

You pushed in another finger. You worked me open scissoring, stretching me without tenderness, moving them inside with a rhythm that made me bite the pillow. A third finger joined in. I no longer knew whether the sounds I was making were protest or pleading. I pushed my ass back against your hand, wanting more.

—Look at me —you said when you saw me close my eyes.

I turned my face on the pillow and opened them. I saw you kneeling behind me, your cock in your hand, lubricating it over my body, smearing yourself with it.

I wanted to see you while you did it. I needed it not to be something faceless, something that could happen with anyone in any room. At least that much had to belong to both of us.

—Please —I said—. I want to see you when you put it in me.

You nodded slowly. You grabbed my hip with one hand and flipped me onto my back in one tug. You lifted my legs and put my ankles on your shoulders, folding me almost in half. The skirt of the pink dress fell over my face, and you moved it aside with your free hand so you could look at me.

I felt the tip of your cock rest against my asshole. You were slow for the first inch and rough for the rest: you entered in one long thrust, all the way in, until I felt your balls slap against my ass. The pain came immediately, sharp, the kind that doesn’t go away but settles in and forces you to breathe differently, to find the rhythm or resign yourself to never finding it. I let out a strangled cry I had not intended to make, and you did not stop.

You started moving. You came out almost completely and drove back in to the hilt, each thrust deeper, surer, with that wet sound your body made against mine. You moved with a steady, deep rhythm that emptied me of any thought that wasn’t the exact moment: the pink skirt crushed against my chest, the white stockings wrinkled around my thighs, your hands marking my hips with pressure I would know for days, your cock going in and out of my ass with a slapping sound that grew more obscene by the second.

—Look at your little ass eating it —you said through clenched teeth—. Look how it opens for me.

I looked down and saw it going in and out, glistening with lubricant, distorting my hole every time you drove all the way to the hilt. My own cock was hard against my belly, red, leaking pre-cum onto the pink dress. I hadn’t even touched it. It wasn’t necessary.

—Touch it —you ordered—. Come for me like the doll you are.

I grabbed my cock with my hand and started stroking it to the rhythm you set. Every time you drove it in to the hilt, I squeezed my fist at the base and worked up to the tip. I didn’t need much. With three, four passes I was already on the edge. I looked you in the eyes.

—I’m coming —I said.

—Come.

I came screaming. My cum shot out in thick ropes, the first hit my chin, the second landed on my chest and the dress, the third and fourth on my belly. My ass clenched around your cock with every spasm and I heard you moan, a guttural sound you hadn’t let out before.

—Now me —you said—. And you’ll take it all, doll. Inside.

You quickened the pace. The thrusts became shorter, rougher, until your whole body tensed over mine. What I felt when you came was heat from the inside, surges of warmth spreading outward slowly, like something finding its place after searching for a long time. I felt you pulse inside me once, twice, three times, emptying yourself into my ass to the very last drop.

You stayed inside a little longer, leaning on my legs still folded against my chest, breathing hard. Then you pulled out slowly and I saw a thread of your semen slipping from my open asshole, falling onto the sheets.

—Don’t clean yourself —you said—. Keep it inside.

You let yourself fall onto me for a moment. Your weight was real and I didn’t mind. Then you moved aside and pulled my hair, gently but firmly, forcing me to turn my head and look at you.

—Who do you belong to? —you asked.

—You —I said, and I didn’t have to think about it.

—And what are you?

I took a second.

—Your doll.

You smiled. It was the first real smile of the night, without irony, without distance. You ran a hand through my hair with something that was almost tenderness, and for an instant the control and hardness of the previous hours dissolved into something harder to name. Your other hand slid between my ass cheeks and pushed two fingers into my hole, shoving back inside the semen that was leaking out of me.

—Sleep a bit —you said—. Tomorrow the second part starts. And this time you’re going to dress differently.

I didn’t ask how. I didn’t need to know yet. I fell asleep with the wig on, the stockings wrinkled at my ankles, the pink dress twisted over my body stained with my own cum, your semen still warm deep in my ass, with the absolute certainty that the weekend had not truly begun yet.